


The Skies Are Blue (Haven't Been For a While)

by TheMipstaz



Series: There's a Light in the Dark [7]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Burns, Dark, Disabled Character, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Apocalypse, Scarification, Zombie Apocalypse, mirrors au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 08:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12744858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Louis isn’t an idiot. He’s hotheaded, sure, and a bit crass, fine. But he’s not an idiot. Like everyone else, he knows the Wall is the only thing separating people like him—terrified, but healthy—from creatures like them—inhuman, infected. He knows what he’s risking by slipping outside the Wall as sundown creeps closer, shadows lengthening into haggard shapes.But what was Louis supposed to do? Sit around with his thumb up his ass while the twins wailed for their mother and Fizzy’s face slowly grew more and more ashen the longer Jay hadn’t returned? Not bloody likely.





	The Skies Are Blue (Haven't Been For a While)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Niall's [Mirrors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIUwlkp8utw) because I fucking love this song so why not.
> 
> Originally posted [here.](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/167575617505/a-zombie-apocalypse-lilo-au-wc-5k-rating-t-an)

 Contrary to popular belief, Louis isn’t an idiot. He’s hotheaded, sure, and a bit crass, fine. But he’s not an idiot. Like everyone else, he knows the Wall is the only thing separating people like him—terrified, but healthy—from creatures like them—inhuman, infected. He knows what he’s risking by slipping outside the Wall as sundown creeps closer, shadows lengthening into haggard shapes.

But what was Louis supposed to do? Sit around with his thumb up his ass while the twins wailed for their mother and Fizzy’s face slowly grew more and more ashen the longer Jay hadn’t returned? Not bloody likely. 

“That’s it,” Louis had finally said, teeth gritted. He carefully handed Phoebe, whose sobs had petered out to pitiful sniffles, off to Lottie. “I’m going out.” 

“Out? Are you mad?” Lottie hissed quietly. She bounced Phoebe soothingly and ran a comforting hand through her hair. 

“I can’t just do nothing,” Louis shot back. “What if Mum needs help? What if she’s hurt? She didn’t just leave us here for no reason. She’s not Dad.” 

Lottie pursed her lips disapprovingly as Louis grabbed his jacket and stalked towards the door. “The girls might manage losing Mum, Louis,” she called after him in a wobbly voice. “It would be the hardest thing they’ve ever done, but they could do it. I don’t think they could survive losing you too.” 

Louis froze halfway out the door. The knuckles of the hand gripping the door frame blanched white. Sighing, he turned around and heavily walked back to Lottie with Phoebe propped on her hip. He brushed kisses against their foreheads. 

Lottie leaned into his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Don’t leave us too.” 

“I’m coming back,” Louis promised fiercely. “We both are.” 

“Be careful.”

“I always am,” Louis huffed, nudging Lottie. “No zombie freak is getting me tonight.” 

Lottie’s eyes searched his face intently. “I know. I’m not talking about the undead.” 

Now, as Louis silently creeps around the dilapidated debris and peers around ramshackle corners, he feels his resolve waver for the first time. He whips a paranoid look over his shoulder for the umpteenth time in as many minutes, sharp eyes scanning for any flicker of movement. 

 _C’mon, Tommo,_  he thinks to himself, not daring to mutter aloud.  _Get it together._ He carefully combs the crumbling streets of a civilization long fallen, walks the empty shell of a once bustling and lively city, and tries to ignore the way the hair on the back of his neck raises. 

He checks the most obvious places first: the closest freshwater well, the market that sometimes gives up precious cans of food if you dig around long enough, the secondhand shop Louis told his mum still had untouched clothing in the back storeroom. He comes up empty. 

By now, the sun has nearly sunk beneath the rooftops. Louis guesses he has maybe an hour left before the Wall closes down for the night, heavy gates slammed shut and padlocked against Turned and humans alike, not to be opened until dawn. 

Louis walks faster, heartrate picking up. He gets careless, feet pounding too loudly on cement, breaths huffing out too noisily. He frantically scans the darkening horizon for any hint of life, so focused on beyond that he nearly misses the shifting gloom and guttural growl right behind him. 

“Fuck!” Louis throws himself out of the way of the lunging Turned just in time. He knocks the wind out of himself against the brick wall, but that beats getting bitten or clawed and infected any day. 

The Turned flies past him, clumsy momentum sending it sprawling on the dusty ground. 

Blood rushing in his ears, Louis turns in the opposite direction, but feels his heart skip a beat when he sees the two new Turned lumbering towards him from the other opening of the alley. Cursing for boxing himself in, Louis scrambles onto the rusty dumpster lining the wall. The Turned close in on him as he jumps and grabs hold of a worryingly creaky fire escape. The coarse, oxidized metal flakes and digs uncomfortably in his palm. It whines in distress, but holds his weight. 

Louis breathes out in relief and painstakingly hauls himself up, arms burning. He clambers onto the landing and begins to climb up to the roof. He looks down to see the Turned circling restlessly before slowly dispersing and lumbering off to wherever they came from. 

Louis wipes the bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. On the roof, he lets a nippy evening breeze send chills down his spine despite his hoodie. The cold reminds him he’s alive; his heart still beats. 

After a moment, he pulls up his hood. Cold is better than dead, but healthy is better than ill with the flu. He lets his eyes roam in vain over the sprawling, decaying city one more time. Off in the distance, he can see the distinctly blundering gait of Turned beginning to awaken as the light fades and the temperature drops. 

He doesn’t see Jay. 

Louis’ heart constricts painfully in his chest, his rib cage contorting and collapsing until he can’t breathe or think. Something ugly and hopeless bubbles up from the mess in his chest, a howling scream of fury and anguish against the unfairness of it all. But Louis has to keep it bottled up because to give away his location on the cusp of night is certain death. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek so hard blood hits his tongue. Then, moment of weakness subdued, he trots to the stairs to get back to street level. 

Like he said, he’s not an idiot. Louis has his sisters back home; he can’t afford a stupid mistake when they need him now more than ever. 

Which, of course, is why everything goes to shit on his way back. He moves quickly, darting through abandoned warehouses and ducking under torn chainlink to shave off precious seconds. He’s cutting it close enough as it is. Scarlet light gives the buildings a stark chiaroscuro effect as the sun sinks lower and lower. 

In his haste, Louis doesn’t notice the gaping doorway in the building he hurries past. The rotting wood door slumping off its hinges explodes in a shower of splinters as he passes, and Louis yelps when the Turned bowls him over. They go tumbling to the ground, luckily thrown apart by the sheer force of the Turned’s wild tackle. 

Louis gasps in pain when his head smacks the tarmac hard enough to send his vision swimming. He staggers upward as fast as possible, wide eyes fixed on the Turned also lurching to its feet. But Louis reels dangerously, the whole world tilting on its axis without his permission. His brain feels like someone is shoving it through a juicer. He falls to his knees, eyes squinting against the agony. He fumbles for the knife in his pocket as the thing shuffles forward, but Louis’ fingers tremble and won’t listen to his aching brain. Spots dance in front of his eyes; his ears roar endlessly. Louis’ breath hitches when the Turned comes close enough for Louis to smell its rotting flesh, take in the empty eye socket and gaunt skeleton wrapped in paper thin skin that has sloughed off in some places. He gags, stomach roiling, and looks away with bile crawling up his throat. 

Louis waits for the inevitable: mangled teeth tearing into his skin or clawed hands ripping his limbs apart. But the pain never comes. Louis hears an almighty  _crunch_ of bone; his heart continues to beat, frantic and fluttering in his tight chest; and Louis sees the the masked stranger for the first time. 

The stranger’s stance is wide and almost nonchalant despite the Turned zombie that jumped Louis laying at the stranger’s feet, skull cracked open and single eye gone dark for good. Louis scans him for a weapon to explain the body—a blood-smeared baseball or a smoking gun. What he finds instead is the stranger’s limp fist dripping sluggishly with grey brain matter. 

Louis almost recoils in disbelief until he notices the fist has an unnatural metallic gleam to it. His eyes rake up the stranger’s pale jumper and settle on the gas mask hiding half of his face like some kind of cyborg, less human than Louis initially thought. 

Lottie’s words come back to him in a jolt:  _I’m not talking about the undead._

“Holy shit,” Louis mumbles to himself. Like everyone else, he’s heard the stories about people who live outside the Wall, outside of civilization. But he’s never truly bought into the rumours of wild clans fighting tooth and nail to survive in the desolate urban wasteland. He’s heard the tall tales of not-Turned-but-not-quite-human-either beings. Refusing to bow down to the militaristic hierarchies that emerged after the virus wreaked havoc on the world, these Others were exiled to live beyond the Wall. But Louis has seen the barren land outside. It’s impossible for anyone to survive out here in nearly resourceless badlands amongst the Turned, who swarm the streets every night. 

Impossible until now, anyway, when evidence to the contrary stands before him in the form of the most feral looking person Louis has ever seen. 

“Thank you,” Louis finally manages to rasp, heart pounding so loudly he almost can’t hear his own croaky voice. 

The stranger doesn’t say anything, and Louis can barely see his face hidden by the dark mask and pulled up hood that casts harsh shadows over his face. What he can make out is the silently extended hand, the clean one, not the one coated in oozing gunk. Thick ink swirls mesmerizingly over over the skin, wrapping neatly over knuckles and disappearing under the sleeve. 

Louis hesitates, inherent distrust freezing his joints, but then he reminds himself that saving someone just to kill them anyway is a waste of energy. In times like these, wasting energy could mean the difference between life and death. Bolstered, Louis grabs the stranger’s hand and hauls himself up. 

“Hey!” 

Louis whips around at the sharp voice, heartbeat spiking. 

A blonde slides down a collapsed wall. He lands on the ground and squints suspiciously at Louis. “Who the fuck are you?” His grip on his pistol tightens. 

Louis steps back nervously, opens his mouth to retort something ill-advised, but then the stranger darts between them. He holds up a placating hand to the blonde, who blinks and immediately lowers his weapon. 

“Liam?” 

Louis glances at the back of the stranger’s—Liam’s—hood in surprise at the protective gesture. 

Liam bridges the distance between himself and the blonde and leans in for a tight hug. Louis stands awkwardly and tries to look away to give some semblance of privacy while the blonde presses his face to Liam’s neck and Liam cups his face with one hand. Then the two step back. Liam makes some gestures Louis can’t see over his shoulder, points at Louis, then begins walking briskly back the way the blonde came. 

The blonde turns to follow, but when he sees Louis still just standing there, he beckons impatiently. “Well, c’mon then. We haven’t got all night.” 

Louis opens his mouth dumbly to try and say something about having to get home, about his sisters being worried sick. But the blonde cuts him off with a curt, “The Wall has closed by now. But fine, if you wanna stick around and get eaten by walkers, be my guest.” 

Louis closes his mouth with an audible click. Annoyed by how he’s probably right, Louis makes a face at the blonde’s retreating back. But he reluctantly trails after anyway. 

* * *

Louis quickly decides that he can’t decide if the Others are as fascinating as the legends have led him to believe or not. 

One one hand,  _Liam has a fucking hand made out of metal._  It doesn’t get much cooler than that. Sure, Niall—the blonde from before—has a knee infused with the same electronics, but c’mon. A bloody steel fist. That’s ace. The technology behind it—the fluid dexterity of Liam’s fingers, the oxidation-resistance of the metal—is absolutely astounding and far beyond anything the technicians within the Wall could even dream of. 

It doesn’t seem plausible until Niall meets the mind behind it: Harry is all unmanageable curls and molasses-slow words and star-bright green eyes. He radiates an infectious energy that makes Louis feel like he could defy gravity or find a cure for the virus or some other ridiculously impossible feat. If anyone was going to invent unfeasible prosthetics in a time where food is scarce let alone precious metals, it would be Harry Styles, deep-dimpled engineer extraordinaire. Louis wonders if he didn’t perhaps just charm the steel and copper wires into doing his bidding with his deep, thoughtful voice while he tugged at his bottom lip with his long, ring-studded fingers. 

“But,” Louis gapes at the veritable mountains of various metals stacked high above his head, more than Louis has ever seen in one place, “but where did this all come from? We can barely find enough scrap lead to melt into bullets. Never mind,” Louis squints closer, “is that titanium?” 

"Oh, it’s easy,” Harry waves a breezy hand. “You just—ow!” Harry winces and rubs his ribs where Niall elbowed him hard. He widens his eyes and juts out a lip in an unmistakable pout aimed at Niall, who just frowns sternly. 

Across the room, Liam rolls his eyes. 

“You’re fine.” Niall pokes Harry in the forehead. Harry giggles, prior indignation forgotten. To Louis, Niall vaguely offers, “We know a guy, for the metals.” 

Louis nods and doesn’t push. He can see the distrustful furrow in Niall’s brow, the hawkish way Liam watches his every move. Just because Louis wasn’t left outside to be Turned chow doesn’t mean he gets to be in on all of their secrets. 

So yeah, the strange people who somehow live outside the protection of the Wall amongst the Turned have some smashing technology that the old stories somehow failed to mention. 

On the other hand, Louis doesn’t see any blatant signs of cannibalism or satanic demon summoning rituals in the tightly reinforced warehouse loft the lads call home. So, in that respect, they’ve rather let Louis down. Not that he particularly wants to be drained of his blood or robbed of his organs to fuel a pagan ceremony or something, but if Louis  _had_  to, that would be one hell of a way to go. 

When Louis says as much, wandering around the warehouse to eye the grimy but functional kitchenette nestled in a corner and the two mattresses shoved together with blankets exploding outward, Harry guffaws so hard he stumbles, misses the table he grabs to steady himself, and has to be rescued by Niall’s arms around his waist. Niall heaves Harry to his feet, shoulders shaking as he fails to hide a wide smile into Harry’s shoulder. Louis can even see Liam’s eyes twinkling and crinkling up in amusement. 

“So, that’s a no on eating people, I take it,” Louis guesses, eyebrow raised as he takes in the three snickering faces. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Niall winks, face opening up and shoulders relaxing for the first time since Louis came in. 

Harry hangs off Niall, but leans closer to Louis and asks eagerly, “What else does your lot say about us? Do we have a secret language to communicate with the walkers? Are we tiny, shriveled mole-people who live underground? Ooh, did we create the walkers? That would be a twist.”

“Do we have massive pricks?” Niall adds helpfully while Harry sniggers. 

“No, maybe, no, and to be determined,” Louis waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. As Harry and Niall dissolve into another bout of laughter, Louis almost misses the quiet snort. But he sees it, the twitch of Liam’s face under his mask that he still hasn’t taken off despite having shrugged off his hood after walking through the door. “So, you  _can_  talk,” Louis announces triumphantly, locking eyes with Liam after catching him redhanded. “Or at least, you’re not mute.” 

Liam’s easy demeanor instantly stiffens up, eyes growing hard and dark. Louis almost takes a step back from the sheer intensity. 

“Louis,” Harry says softly, begging for him to stand down because he doesn’t know Louis well enough to know that Louis doesn’t back down that easily. 

Louis doesn’t leave things alone; he picks at scabs until they bleed. 

“But I heard him,” Louis insists, daring to take a challenging step towards Liam. “Even with the mask on.” 

Liam stands up from the mattress he’d been lounging on, suddenly filling up so much space with his squared shoulders and looming stance. Louis really does take an uneasy step back now, heartbeat picking up and sweat prickling at his hairline. He gulps and instantly recalls how crumpled the Turned’s skull looked after Liam was done with it. Niall and Harry don’t move, not that Louis expects them to choose a stranger over their friend, especially after Louis let his mouth go like that. Louis balls up his fists, clenches his jaw, and prepares for the worst. 

Until Liam turns the tables again, abruptly enough to give Louis whiplash. Instead of lunging towards Louis with intent to hurt, maim, kill,  _whatever_ , Liam’s face tightens and he retreats. There’s no other way to describe the way his broad shoulders collapse inward, his head ducks as he turns around, eyes glued to the floor. 

Louis blinks. He could almost collapse into the vacuum Liam left behind, all the tension sucked out of the room to leave Louis off balance. He shakes his head to clear it. 

“Liam! I’ll go after him,” Niall says quickly to Harry. “You stay here with this knob.” He huffs out an annoyed breath that has Louis shuffling his feet, chastised. 

Louis scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry?” he tries hopefully, giving Harry his best puppy dog apology eyes. 

“Good,” Harry crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed, “you should be.” 

Well, Lottie always did say his puppy dog eyes were shit. 

But Harry’s face creases with worry as he gazes towards the spiral stairs leading to the roof that Niall and Liam disappeared up. “It’s not completely your fault. Liam…he’s had a hard time of it.” 

Louis snorts before he can stop himself and attempt to be a decent human being 5 seconds after clearly fucking up. “Haven’t we all, love?” He gestures around them in a  _look around us_  way—to the ramshackle loft attempting to disguise itself as a home, to the crumbling shell of a city outside, to the cold night punctuated with Turned snuffles and growls.

Harry shakes his head, runs a weary hand through his greasy hair. “Well yes, but you don’t understand.” Harry tugs especially hard on his bottom lip, eyes pensive as he talks even slower than his usual glacial pace. He picks his words as carefully as someone picking their way through a minefield. “It’s not really my story to tell.” 

“Well, he can’t very well tell me himself, what with the gas mask and all,” Louis points out. “I know the air quality isn’t stunning or anything, but what’s that all about?” 

“It’s not a fashion statement, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Harry says, eyes roving over Louis’ face in search of something Louis can’t even fathom. He must find what he wants, because he nods to himself before continuing. “Liam needs it to breathe, especially outside. The air is too dusty for him, too many particles to fuck up his lungs even more.” 

“Even more?” 

“Before he met me and Niall, Liam was traveling with another boy. Zayn.” Harry’s voice catches over the name. 

“Was?” Louis feels his throat go tight at the past tense. 

“Was,” Harry nods. “The four of us banded up for a while, strength in numbers and all that. Liam and Zayn knew the best places to get fresh water, and me and Niall had the weapons they needed to keep the walkers at bay. So, you know,” he shrugs, “it made sense.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows in surprise. He’d assumed Harry, Niall, Liam, and now this Zayn bloke had known each other before the virus took over the world. It’s not unheard of for people to team up post-virus, especially at the beginning, but it’s still highly unusual. Alliances without unbreakable bonds like family or deep-rooted, practically familial friendships often pose more risk than reward. When resources run dry and survival is no longer a given, alliances shatter under the pressure more often than not. Even families can rip at the seams if individuals aren’t strong enough. But a ragtag group of strangers somehow sticking together through Turned attacks and ration shortages and God knows what else, that’s almost incomprehensible. 

“We holed up in what used to be a paint manufacturing factory.” 

Louis gives Harry a bewildered look. He’s no chemist, but even Louis knows that’s as awful of an idea as it sounds. 

“We didn’t know that’s what it was at the time,” Harry defends himself. “We just thought it was this empty building. The roof didn’t have any leaks, and the doors could be locked, and that was good enough.” 

Louis thinks about all the hazardous fumes filling up the lads’ lungs every time they took a breath, and he winces. 

Harry sighs and leans wearily against a wall, running a hand through his curls. “We still don’t know exactly what happened. Niall thinks someone or a walker or sommat must’ve been messing around with the pipes, broke something. All we can figure is there was a gas leak.” 

Louis grimaces at the angle the story is slanting towards. 

“Zayn, he used to smoke. Couldn’t anymore obviously. But he still had his lighter.” Harry lets his head thump painfully against the stone wall, eyes shutting tightly closed. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “He used to flick it on and off when he was bored.” 

“Harry,” Louis says in a hollow voice. He doesn’t need to hear the rest.

But Harry shakes his head, almost violently, and soldiers on. “Me and Niall were out. Only Liam and Zayn were inside. With the gas. And then Zayn must’ve clicked the lighter on and…” Harry sucks in a sharp breath, face contorted like he’s breathing in knives instead of oxygen. Or maybe he’s inhaling a thousand flammable, toxic chemicals into delicate human lungs. 

“We came running, Niall and me, after the explosion. The loudest thing I’ve ever fucking heard,” Harry chokes out. “The whole building was up in flames. We were out of our minds, weren’t thinking about structural soundness or anything, and we charged right in.” 

Louis shifts closer to Harry, presses their sides together as they lean against the wall. When he notices Harry’s trembling legs, he coaxes Harry to sit and slides down the wall with him. 

“We found Liam trying to dig out Zayn,” Harry whispers so quietly Louis almost can’t hear his raspy voice. “The ceiling had caved and crushed his legs, but there was nothing we could do. I’m not even sure if Zayn was still alive. We couldn’t afford to stay and die trying to save a dead man. Not even a friend. Right?” Harry turns a pleading look on Louis, eyes suspiciously wet. 

“Right,” Louis agrees grimly. 

Harry lets out a shaking breath, head drooping like a marionette with its strings cut. He slumps against Louis, back horribly curved to rest his head on Louis’ shoulder. “Liam was never the same. He got the worst of the smoke and things, from being inside longer than me or Niall. Got horrible burn scars and could barely breathe even when we got outside to fresh air.  Eventually, we moved into one of our other storehouses and found one of Zayn’s old masks from when he used to work with spray paints. Quite the artsy one, our Zayn. Loved to draw and paint and make all kinds of strange sculptures from debris. I got the idea that maybe I could tinker with it to help Liam’s fucked up lungs.” 

“That’s amazing, Harry,” Louis says sincerely, tentatively resting his cheek on Harry’s head. “You probably saved his life.” 

"He definitely saved his life,” Niall says firmly, walking down the spiral staircase and making his way towards them. He slides down beside Harry, gingerly splaying out his bad knee and tucking his good one close to his chest. “Zayn was our artist, and Haz is our miracle-worker.” 

Harry buries his face into Niall’s shoulder and mumbles a quiet disagreement no one can make out. 

Niall presses his nose to Harry’s curls affectionately and pats his cheek bracingly. “Alright, to bed with you, petal. It’s late.” 

Harry whines, but grumbles minimally when Niall hauls him to his feet to stumble over to the mattresses. 

“There’s plenty of room,” Niall offers to Louis while Harry takes advantage of Niall’s distraction to wrap himself into a blanket burrito. “Or the chair isn’t half bad if you’d prefer.” 

Louis nods gratefully. “Thanks, but I think first I should,” he gestures to the spiral staircase. 

Niall narrows his eyes suspiciously. “How d’you expect to do that? He can’t talk, not really. The fire fucked up his lungs and vocal chords. You should leave him alone.” 

Louis juts his chin out stubbornly, never one to let things go. “There’s more than one way to speak to someone.” 

Niall dips his head approvingly, sharp blue eyes appraising Louis in a new light. Without another word, he settles down beside Harry the snoring burrito. 

Louis takes a deep breath at the base of the stairs, hand tracing the groove on the metal railing, then starts the ascent. 

Outside, the last vestiges of sunlight have abandoned the world. Night exists in shades of black and silver. Louis spots Liam straight away, bathed in moonlight where he sits on the rooftop edge. His legs dangle over the ledge, heels tapping a disjointed rhythm against the stone wall. He doesn’t turn to look at Louis, even when Louis sits a couple feet away, heels stock still. 

Everything feels still for a minute or two, Louis holding his breath as he wonders how this will play out. If Liam still feels stroppy about earlier. If he regrets saving Louis in the first place. 

Let it never be said that Louis is a patient person, but even he knows to hold his tongue in this instance. 

Finally, excruciatingly, Liam angles his head to the side just enough to glance at Louis, acknowledge him. 

Louis’ chest almost collapses with relief, shoulders rounding out and fists unclenching. He scans Liam’s face—the premature lines on his forehead, the dark circles under his tired eyes, the intricate mechanics of his mask. 

“I told Niall I knew what I was doing, but, if we’re being honest,” Louis shrugs helplessly, “I have no fucking clue.”

Liam watches him with assessing eyes.

“Harry told me what happened, so I’m not expecting you to say anything.” Louis runs a hand through his hair and looks away from Liam. “Which is sorta frustrating since I’m not exactly the best with this talking shit.”

“That wasn’t his story to tell.”

The voice is so faint, so scratchy that Louis almost wonders if he imagined it. But when his eyes dart in shock back to Liam’s face, he can see the loosened mask sits a little further down Liam’s face than before. Underneath gleams thick scar tissue.

Trying to gather his wits about himself and not make Liam feel too self-conscious, Louis snorts, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Harry almost told me where your metal supply is 10 minutes after meeting me.”

Liam huffs a wheezy chuckle. “You’re not wrong. Haz is a nightmare.” The words come out slow—not syrupy and smooth like Harry’s, but raspy and choppy like an engine sputtering to life after years of disuse.

But Louis clings to every word, revels in the sparkle in Liam’s eyes. Eager to hear more, he leans toward Liam, scoots closer, and grins. “I bet you’ve got some real dirt on Harold. Spill.”

Liam tilts his head, eyes searching Louis’ for something Louis can’t fathom. “Maybe next time,” he says finally. “Can’t give up all poor Harry’s secrets in one go to a bloke who’ll be gone in the morning.”

“I’ll come back,” Louis promises, the unexpected genuineness of his words surprising even himself. But his chest swells with the utter truth in it. Even though he’s just met these lads, they make him feel something. They’re magnetic, pulling him in. “I have to go back to my girls when the Wall opens back up, but I’ll be back.”

Louis holds out his hand, pinky finger extended slightly, a habit he picked up from Daisy. Everytime he left the safe confines of the Wall, he would bend down and lock pinkies with her—a promise to bring back something from outside. A shiny coin. New clothes. A promise to take care of himself. A promise to come back to them.

His chest tightens at the thought of Daisy and the girls thinking both him and their mum dead, but he resolutely keeps his hand out. When Liam glances quizzically between Louis’ hand and his face, Louis nods towards his pinky. “I’m coming back, Liam.”

“You don’t have to.” Liam warily eyes Louis’ finger like it might bite him.

“I want to,” Louis insists firmly.

Liam nods slowly at that. Then he tentatively loops his pinky with Louis. The smooth slide of metal against Louis’ skin isn’t as unpleasant as Louis had worried. Liam’s hand isn’t cold at all; it’s delicately warm, and the hinges of his joints don’t pinch Louis’ skin when he tightens with hooked fingers.

The corner of Louis mouth quirks up. “You promised me dirt, Liam, and Niall certainly won’t tell me the good stuff.”

“Next time,” Liam offers. “Maybe I want something first before I tell you how Harry keeps his curls so springy.”

“And what if I wanted something else?” Louis pushes, suddenly feeling bold. 

“Like what?”

“Like your story.” 

“That can be negotiated.” 

Louis grins, lowering but not unlinking their hands. “What do you want to know, love?”

Liam fiddles with his mask, cinching it back up and replacing it over his exposed scars. But not before he whispers, “Anything.”


End file.
